Chapter 10: A Stone's Throw
For the children in the von Trapp family, every day was rather the same as the one before it or the one after. It didn't matter whether their father was locked away in his own world in the house or off wherever he was when he went away, whether it was a school day or the weekend.
Each morning—with no one else among the household staff able, or more to the point, willing to—Frau Schmidt roused Liesl, Louisa, and Brigitta a little after seven, a task that was sometimes easier said than done. It was inevitably a scramble for the washroom to use the toilet and clean their faces, begin to arrange their hair and scrub their teeth. Occasionally, Louisa teased her older sister when she donned one dress then stripped it away and tugged another over her not yet fully tamed hair. Brigitta sometimes had to be reminded to finish dressing rather than continue to read the book she had hidden from the housekeeper before she made her rounds the night before.
The boys were more difficult to get moving, the housekeeper sometimes needing to open the doors and call for them to start finding their shirts and trousers two or three times, the last usually followed by a crash as she closed the door a little louder than before. But with just the two of them sharing the bedroom and washroom—and far less hair to detangle after a night of tousling it about on crisp cotton pillowcases—they had usually taken their chairs at the table in the dining room before any of their sisters.
Frau Bauer looked after Marta and Gretl for breakfast as she did the other meals, keeping them in the nursery where their occasional childish outbursts wouldn't disturb anyone. Each morning, one of the kitchen maids brought up a tray for the three of them: the same breakfast served to the rest of the family for her—rolls with butter and jam spooned into little ceramic pots, a small plate of meat and cheese, a glass of juice and a small cup of strong coffee—plain porridge with cream for the two little girls. On the nurse's rare days off, the maids looked after them until Frau Schmidt had seen to the house and could tend to them like her own grandchildren.
Most days as breakfast settled in their stomachs, the five older children bundled themselves into coats and scarves—now, gloves weren't needed every morning—books and papers in their bags for class. It was on the walk home that they forgot themselves, chattering and laughing, sometimes running after one another along the path that led to the lake just behind house. If their father was about or not, though, the laughter and little games faded almost as soon as they were in the house, no more snow to stamp off their feet before they tracked it into the front hall. Between their return home and the start of dinner, they worked on their lessons in the schoolroom, though Frau Schmidt sometimes had to remind Liesl and Brigitta (again) to put aside their books; Louisa usually secreted her drawings between her assignments before they could be taken away. When dinnertime arrived, it hardly mattered whether Franz sat at the head of the table as he did for breakfast or their father forgot the time during his sporadic visits. Each course was served without a word: just silence apart from the knives and forks on the pristine white plates or spoons scraping off the last drips of soup on the edge of silver rimmed bowls.
And at last, back to their bedrooms, jostling for time to shower and again brush their teeth. The girls were always a little later to be fully ready for bed, more of them needing their own time in the washroom, though Liesl was the only one who insisted on washing her hair almost every night. ("Someone special tomorrow?" Louisa always asked when her older sister emerged from the washroom with her hair wet and limp.) Each night, Frau Schmidt eventually had to persuade the three girls to close their books and turn out their bedside lamps, closing the door knowing that in a short while, at least one light would be glowing through the thin crack between the very bottom wooden edge and creamy rug running beneath it. Friedrich and Kurt—already in their blue striped pajamas—were otherwise occupied: the elder boy fiddling with a small model ship half-built on his bedside table, the younger sorting through the latest pebbles and occasional fossil he had collected whether from the grounds or along the lane they took to and back from school. But those were always charged to be put away as well, early enough that in a couple of months, daylight would still linger outside.
Even on Saturdays, little changed, apart from spending the entire day in the schoolroom with their lessons for the weekend rather than in their individual classrooms at down the lane. They still found their places around the table for breakfast when the sun had barely cleared the eastern horizon, battled through German literature and history and mathematics until one of the maids or the housekeeper called them down for lunch. (Even if their father was at home, he almost never left his study during midday, at least at the weekend. Perhaps it was the noise of the five of them tramping down the stairs that reminded him to hide?)
But Sundays...well, those were never quite the same. Whether it was the staff enjoying a day off in turn as the weeks went by or the empty morning hours that even six months ago had been spent in their small parish church, nothing was exactly as strict. The knocks on their bedroom doors came later in the morning, sometimes well after the breakfast table was laid the other six days of the week. None of the girls' hair was quite so neatly tied with ribbons, and occasionally one of the boy's shirts wasn't properly tucked into the waistband of their trousers as Frau Schmidt rather than Franz peered at them from the head of the table, the butler the only person always free that morning each week. And while they weren't chased into the schoolroom after the morning meal was finished—almost as though the housekeeper took pity on them, granting them a few free hours just as their teachers did sometimes when classes were half done for the day—they were sent right back to their corner of the family's upstairs wing. Back to the nursery wing and their own rooms, for another few quiet hours until lunch was announced.
But even if Sundays weren't like any other day, they were the same week after week. Which was why Friedrich and Kurt found themselves in their shared bedroom a few minutes after eleven, each of them curled on their bed leafing through a book from the shelf between them. It was the same heavy dark wood that framed their beds, hid their trousers and shirts and jackets behind the doors of the tall wardrobe in the far corner, and sat at opposite edges of their beds where books often landed. Not too long ago, little trinkets might have been scattered there as well. Now, though, little ships and tiny model trains were always locked in the drawers beneath the wooden top whenever they were noticed, the grain polished and shadowy and bare. "You know your father doesn't want you playing games like that," Frau Schmidt had told them months ago, well before he had begun to disappear for...
I can't remember anymore, Friedrich thought, his back flush against the bed frame, one of the dark wooden slats digging at his shoulder. Opening to the next chapter of his book—he had paused with the stranded passengers as darkness fell over the sea on their first night under the ocean—he scowled at it. Some adventure, he thought, almost snagging the top corner as he turned to the next page, not quite reading a single word; he remembered too much of it already. Where's the fun being stuck on a submarine? All it does it make you miserable. Or at least it didn't do anything else for Father.
Across from him—each of their beds tucked beneath one of the windows looking out over the trees planted around the very edge of the villa—Kurt was still lost in one of his books filled with drawings and even a few prints of the hills and valleys that cut across western Austria, almost just outside their front door. A year ago—not last Christmas, but the one before—their shared bookshelf had suddenly filled with a new mess of books. Ships and architecture and history for him, but really only one sort for Kurt: the mountains. The Alps surrounding them, the Himalayas in Asia, the Appalachians across the ocean (Friedrich thought that was what Kurt had called them), even a few on the rocks and fossils that could be dug up from the lane at the end of the lake. Almost all from their mother: the colorful tissue paper carefully folded around the sharp and fresh corners, the delicate blue ribbons strung about them quickly finding their way to Liesl's hands and Marta's hair, twisted into new braids that just tickled her shoulders. Their youngest sister was still too squirmy—
Friedrich bit his tongue, his gaze back on the lines and story caught between his hands. Mother always did give him most of what he wanted. The black words blurred for a moment, and he blinked heavily, catching a tear just at the corner of his eye. But all that was a year ago. Before. This year...There had hardly been a difference, Christmas morning, apart from Aunt Hede and Uncle Max. Otherwise, it might as well have been another Sunday: another Sunday suddenly spent in the house and nowhere else, knowing the hallway clock was ticking away the minutes and hours from breakfast to lunch to dinner to bedtime. Aunt Hede to read books to Marta and Gretl with Frau Bauer and Uncle Max to tease them, but no cheer. No Christmas tree erected in the salon the day before, laden with golden balls alongside clumsily painted stars and angels, pristine silken bows and little crosses tied together with green and white thread around the center. Not even the carp and potatoes they all anticipated the entire month, just the same Sunday dinner as the week before, the elder five of them gathered around the dinner table with Franz and Frau Schmidt both joining the larger family. Just like every Sunday. Without their father.
Where is he going? Friedrich asked himself as he often did. And what...He ground his shoulder against the bed frame, an itch suddenly burning beneath his skin for a moment. What is he doing? I don't know why he can't just do everything here, in his study. It's not that far…
But he hardly knew, now. Sometimes, he forgot the distance, that he and his brother and sisters now lived every moment of their lives in Aigen, that Salzburg might as well be in a different state. Not even that, Friedrich thought as he tugged his shirt closer at a new chill, probably drifting through a small crack between the window frame and the sill. Apart from school, their lives were confined to the house and the grounds.
"Not even those now," he muttered, his hands tighter on his book. "No one let's us—"
"Did you say something?"
Friedrich's eyes popped up above the top edge of his book, just catching his brother's gaze. Just like him, Kurt had abandoned his shoes when Frau Schmidt banished them from the dining room after breakfast, just in his socks drawn up to his knees below the hem of his short pants. But rather than sitting up with his book, his younger brother had half-cocooned himself in his blankets, bent over one of those books on rocks, probably staring at the little drawings and daydreaming about them the way he always did. "No," he said, yanking the book back up to his face, hiding his scowl.
Maybe it wouldn't be that bad out on the ocean. At least Kurt and the girls wouldn't bother me with everything they always talk about. He turned another page, his hand diving down to the top of his sock, scratching at a fresh itch of wool on his calf. There must have been something Father liked about it so much. Mother always said she wondered if he missed it when he came home more than her when—
"You'll have to help him, Friedrich." He sat a little straighter, now a shiver running down his back. "Your father won't be able…" He snapped his book shut, nearly throwing it down at his side.
"Friedrich?"
"Leave me alone." Scrabbling for his quilt—not caring about his pressed white shirt and grey pants, pleats running through the houndstooth to the cuff at his knee—Friedrich fell back onto his bed, twisting around on his pillow, away from his brother.
"Fine. You're just being grumpy anyway."
There was no clock in their room marking the time away until the knock came at midday. It wouldn't be that different, he knew as he pulled his knees up to his chest, just all the girls to chatter on and on. But at least he wouldn't have to listen to it all over again. There was no escaping it here and now, just like every Sunday...really every day. And if he clenched his eyes shut, it wasn't darkness enveloping him. You know what she would say, even now. You'll always know. With the quilt and sheet drawn up to his chin, Friedrich crushed his face to his mattress, wishing he didn't have to live it all again.
The priest had come and gone, hands folded together around his Bible, head bowed as he passed through their little crowd outside their parents' bedroom. Friedrich had lost track of how long the man had been locked away with Mother and Father; not even the nurse Father had finally insisted on when Mother's own health had begun to fail was with them. Instead, she was with Frau Bauer and the little girls, just another set of comforting arms. Marta and Gretl were still too young to understand anything that was different in the house, just that their mother no longer held them and hugged them. There was only Frau Schmidt, occasionally coming and going, fresh blankets in her arms when she entered, nothing when she emerged. She always closed the door firmly behind her before any of them had a chance to peer inside. "You'll know if your father wants you," the housekeeper always said softly, usually waving her hand for several of them to sit back down on the floor.
"She's so quiet," Louisa whispered, huddled beside Liesl and Brigitta on the floor across from Kurt and himself. "She was coughing so much yesterday."
"Maybe…" Brigitta's hands were already tangled in her long hair, tugging her braid apart one twist at a time even as Liesl drew her closer.
"What?" he asked. His knees pulled up against his chin, Friedrich shuddered. Outside, summer had found a fresh life, the sun bright and warm after a spell of cool rain, the last weeks leaving Salzburg and Aigen sticky and damp as the earth and roads steamed each afternoon. Inside, he was cold with his back pressed to the white wall, buttocks half on the gently worn wooden floorboards, half on the creamy rug that ran down the center of the hall.
"Maybe she's finally feeling better."
They had all been here before: him with Kurt, Liesl with their sisters, nearly every afternoon this week. Their teachers had excused them from their lessons for the time, leaving them to work with their books and notes at home in the mornings. Not that any of them could really think about sums or grammar. In the silent schoolroom, they were always waiting for Frau Schmidt to call for them to come. "Just in case your father needs you," she always said.
Liesl pulled Brigitta even closer, whispering something to her he didn't quite hear as the younger girl scrubbed at her eyes and nose with a quiet cry, before: "Father Simon wouldn't have come if she was." She was right, he knew, even if no one else would say it. Even yesterday when Mother's strength failed far earlier than today, their parish priest hadn't been here to read...
Friedrich tugged at his collar, his short grey tie too tight against his throat. Everything was too tight right now: the cropped charcoal trousers cut into his waist and his hips and the matching jacket didn't quite button all the way when he was sat curled up on the floor. He'd already started outgrowing everything the tailor had fitted at the beginning of spring, though Mother had said it would be a few years before— He bit down on his tongue—hard—and took a deep breath through his nose, the wince swallowed along with his own sniffles. Even with everything unfolding in the same corner of the house, some days it felt like something he and Kurt were watching on their own, far away.
Their sisters had all come down with it at once, it seemed, the signs clear and sureearly enough that their parents could order the two of them to keep to themselves while the girls were sequestered in their room down the hall. It was only Mother who ventured into the room—very rarely Father—always washing her hands with a fresh cloth as soon as the door closed behind her, unwilling to embrace either of them for a moment until the girls' fevers had broken. But it was only replaced by her own.
They're all fine now. Wouldn't we have been too? he wondered, the faint creak of a hinge drawing his eyes up. To his father, now just peering through a thin opening of the door to the master bedroom, now Mother's sickroom.
Father was almost a wild man, now, his face buried in shadow despite the afternoon sunlight behind him. His jacket was unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up once or twice, shirt nearly untucked from his waistband and belt. The black tie he nearly always wore was loosened, and his hair was unkempt and tossed every which way above a thin growth of beard that Friedrich feared coming for him some day soon. "Friedrich?"
He was already scrambling to his feet, the pressure around his stomach lessening as his vision swam, almost black at the edge for a second as his knees released the pressure on his blood. "Yes, Father?"
"Come here."
Friedrich didn't hesitate as his father beckoned him forth with a finger, though one of his shoes caught on the very edge of the runner in the center of the hall. He didn't stumble despite his heart rate rising for a moment, just following his father through the door and wincing again as it snapped closed behind him. He and his brother and sisters were never allowed in here, apart from those short moments when their mother had a new baby in her arms, her breathing still rough as their newest sibling squealed and cried and fought to escape the blanket wrapped tight about them.
He had almost forgotten the mahogany bed frame and bureau, the white curtains tied back from the windows that were firmly latched against an autumn breeze, and bedclothes crumpled around...Friedrich gulped down a gasp. Mother? Her face was pale and gaunt, every sheet and blanket drawn up to her chin, her body a quivering mass despite the sweat he saw shining on her forehead. The dark hair she nearly always wore tied up or draped elegantly over her shoulder was just as wild as his father's, a few chunks plastered against one of her white cheek, the other side of her face buried in the stack of pillows holding her head and neck up from the mattress. "M...Mother?"
Even his faint words roused her, her head turning slowly to him. "Friedrich? Just a little closer, but no more. I have to tell—" Another round of coughs erupted—
Friedrich wrenched his quilt away from his face and chest, his palms crushed into his bed as he pushed himself up again and swallowed a cough of his own. He hated that sound, now, they all did. Even when it had just been one of the girls with a sore throat at the beginning of December—scarves not tight enough around their faces and necks during one of the walks to and from school, Frau Schmidt had fussed—more than one rasp was enough to send all their worried eyes to their father.
At least if he was here, Friedrich thought as he raised one of his arms over his head, the faint tingle fading as he stretched his elbow out. Where had he put his book again? He didn't quite remember where he had tossed it— No, there it was, right beside him
"He won't tell you, Friedrich, but your father has loved this book since he was your age."
"Really?"
"Anything to do with the ocean. I told him once, he never would have thought of submarines without it."
"What did he say?"
"Not much, but he did laugh."
Once again, he settled against the wooden rods of the bed frame between his back and the creamy painted wall, flicking through the battered pages as he tried to remember the last page he had read before the silence had become too much. Finally just on the submarine? No, he thought, that was where you stopped last night. A chunk of the crumpled pages between his fingers, Friedrich turned a chapter or two into the future. Or maybe that's where you were when you gave up the first time you tried to read it. But at least it was something I thought I could share with Father. Peeling his hand from his book and curling it into a fist, Friedrich rubbed at his eye for a brief second.
The Captain, the Professor and his servant, and the Harpooner were fading even as he stared at the pages, the yellowing paper snagged and ripped here and there. Even the black threads across the cover were stained and crushed at the corners, though still tightly woven and taut across the stiff wooden board beneath. Was this really Father's when he was my age? he asked himself, sniffing and coughing against a sudden clot of...something at the back of his throat. And there was another tear, this one caught as he scrubbed his fist against his nose and cheek. But it was at least a year ago, you wouldn't have just told me something like—
"I wish we could go outside."
Friedrich scowled, closing the book on his fingers. It didn't really matter; the words didn't make sense this time, anyway. "And do what?" he snapped. Sometimes, he wondered if Kurt would talk to his rocks and fossils if he wasn't around. "Just be cold?"
"It's better than being inside for another day."
He slapped the book down on the bookshelf between them, swinging one foot—then the other—over the edge of his bed. Kurt must have been bored by his books, Friedrich decided, just catching glimpse of the stack of rocks strewn in front of him. And without a book to distract him, his brother would be a source of endless babble. "What's so different outside?"
"I wouldn't have to listen to you—"
"At least I make sense sometimes!"
"That's not fair!"
Friedrich shrugged, stretching both of his legs. Sometimes, it felt that they would never go outside again, it had been so long since they had just run around the way they used to. "So?"
"You're not that much older than me, you don't know everything—"
"I know enough!"
Kurt huffed, his bed groaning as he threw himself down and turned away. Go ahead, Friedrich thought, pulling his feet and legs back onto his bed, then tugging his quilt over his knees again. He refused to look out the window, the sun and gentle breeze so enticing, he was almost jealous. Of whom...anyone outside, he supposed. At least that's better than being locked inside because Father can't decide if he's worried or angry. If he could decide—
"Friedrich?" Kurt's voice was quieter than before, a little muffled like his face was pushed into his pillow.
His eyes drifted across the room, his younger brother already rolling onto his back, hands tucked beneath his neck. Just like Friedrich, his shirt was wrinkled and probably a little loose about his waist. "What now?"
"Is it—always going to be this way?"
Friedrich coughed again before he swallowed against the sudden dry patch in his throat. "Being annoyed with you?"
Kurt was sitting up again. "No—"
"So, what, then?"
"Doing nothing."
"You'd rather be in school?"
"No—and you know what I—"
Just like earlier that day when it had been time to sleepily scramble from bed and prepare for breakfast, a harsh knock came from the hall: Frau Schmidt's fist against their bedroom door before she opened it just enough to step through. "Enough of that," she said quietly, her apron askew about her waist, their bickering clearly having become loud enough to be heard in the hallway. "Time to straighten yourselves up for midday. You know your father won't have you around the table like you are now."
Apart from more plates and silverware for the meal the maids laid for them—and tidier clothes more appropriate for the remainder of the day rather than breakfast—nothing was different than the morning. Frau Schmidt once again sat at the head of the table and the meal passed without conversation, apart from a moment of bickering between Kurt and Brigitta, the housekeeper snapping for them to finally be quiet. Really, despite the hunger that had begun gnawing inside his stomach, Friedrich was happy to be dismissed for the afternoon, just draining his water glass before pushing his chair back.
They were climbing the stairs in a cluster, the girls already whispering amongst themselves as Friedrich frowned. Another Sunday afternoon locked up in his bedroom with Kurt: pretending to read his father's old book, listening to his brother complain whenever his interest in his own books and collection of rocks waned, every now and then wishing there was a clock to stare at while they wasted the afternoon away…
"Come on!" he hissed, closing his hand around Kurt's wrist and dragging him off into one of the corridors off the main hall. The girls' bedroom was first—their own lay beyond, then their parents'...well, what had been their parents' bedroom—but the corner of the house set aside for guests whenever they happened to visit branched off first.
"What—"
"Shh!" Only a few steps out of the hallway, the shadows were already enveloping them. While the overhead lights burned brightly over the main corridor until long after they were all in bed for the night—Friedrich had never woken quite early enough to know for how long they were extinguished—unless someone was visiting long enough to need a bedroom readied for them, nearly all of them in this hall were unlit.. There were just one or two glowing, hardly enough to light the path to the far end and the entrance to the staff's corridors beside the window looking out over the grounds, just a little sunshine to keep them from tripping. "Unless you want someone coming after us!"
Neither Friedrich nor Kurt were very familiar with the back halls; occasionally, they had sneaked down to the kitchen in the middle of the night when Kurt complained a little too loudly that he was already hungry after dinner, but rarely more often than that. Especially now, their father was eager for them to keep to themselves. Afraid you won't be able to find us? Friedrich wondered, yanking the far door open. Not that it matters.
If the corridor lined with guest bedrooms had been dim and drenched with darkness, the staff's hallways burned brilliantly with bulbs hardly hidden by smudged and dusty glass sconces. No creamy runners along the floor, just light brown wooden boards scuffed and worn after decades of rough shoes hurrying here and there. Nicked plaster rather than whitewashed walls, small ashy patches here and there from candles lit over the years whenever the electric lights flickered or vanished entirely. Nothing like halls they roamed whenever they escaped from their rooms.
At least it's Sunday, Friedrich thought, choosing a turn he half remembered from those rare nighttime quests when their stomachs grumbled. Even yesterday, we already would have had to hide from someone. The chambermaids were nice enough—even though their father disliked them spending much time with any members of staff but for Franz and Frau Schmidt who seemed to belong to the house—but over the last months, there weren't even the quietest words exchanged. Like they're afraid we're as angry as Father, too.
Every now and then as they wound their way down the staircases and through the gloomy halls, he slowed for Kurt to catch him, the younger boy panting when one corridor transformed into a wrong turn and saw them clamoring up steps rather than down. But whenever they passed a window, the brown grass and bare trees grew closer. Once or twice, Friedrich even saw the edge of the lake, the stone landing with its mythical horses, and iron gate that was always closed tight these days.
It was a breath of fresh air when they burst through the door onto the back grounds, sunlight finally replacing the dim bulbs of the staff corridors. And the gentle breeze through the barren trees: in a few weeks, it would bring the scent of freshly trimmed grass, but now it only carried the smell of lake water, still and undisturbed for the last months since autumn had finally been consumed by winter. At least the snow is gone, Friedrich thought, Kurt's slower footsteps still behind him. But the ground was still cold, some patches nearly frozen hard as a rock. Everything's waiting, I guess.
A year ago, it might have been a family walk after church, sometimes all of them chasing after the snowflakes that floated down from the sky if it was still cool enough. Father carrying Marta, Mother folding Gretl into her arms whenever it was warm enough. Frau Bauer sometimes frowned when she had to relinquish her charges to Mother—more than once protesting how things ought to be done in the household—but Friedrich supposed she might be glad to have a few more minutes to herself now. On some of the especially long days, Frau Schmidt sent them off to the nursery as well, at least for an hour or two. "Until you've learned to quiet down for a time!"
"You're still going too fast!" Kurt shouted. Friedrich scowled to himself as he slowed, the toe of his left shoe snagging a clod of soil that lay turned up. "You know I can't run like you—"
"Then maybe you shouldn't always ask for a second slice of cake after dinner!" he snapped, turning back and launching the crumbling dirt at his brother with a swift kick. "Then you wouldn't be so slow!" Not waiting for Kurt to protest, Friedrich turned back again and continued on ahead around the lake, past the landing where afternoons excursions on the rowboat tied at the far edge of the water began and ended, off to the east where the trees lay thicker.
"It's east and west, or north and south, not left or right."
"But isn't that good enough, Father?"
"Not on land—and neither are good at sea. Your sailors might not know quickly enough."
"My sailors?"
"Maybe your soldiers, Friedrich, the way things are now. I suppose east and west would be good enough for them—"
Something smacked against the back of his neck, hard as it hit, but suddenly damp and powdery as it crumbled and worked its way beneath the collar of his shirt. He spun back—just to see Kurt dash past him, right hand against his trousers as he wiped away a handful of the same dirt.
"What was that for!"
"To slow you down! If it was you, we'd still be sitting inside!"
"Me!"
"I was the one who said it!" Kurt called back before going on even farther ahead.
The smell of the lake was stronger, probably melding with a few blooms of green that had somehow survived the harsh Salzburg winter. Maybe it's good Father can't expect me to be in the navy. "You wouldn't have known where to go if I wasn't with you—"
"Yes I would!"
"Then you can take us back!"
The dormant grass was giving way to rocks and pebbles, worn smooth by the water's lapping whenever the wind pushed a few waves to and fro. But today it was still, nowhere near his brother as Kurt crouched down for one of the larger rocks, not even pausing before he flung it out toward the middle of the lake. It bounced once—then twice—as he stooped for another. "See! It's better than whatever you were reading!"
"So you were right once?" Friedrich grumbled, gulping as he took a deeper breath, a faint stitch growing in his side. Or maybe his lunch just wasn't settling. "Don't get used—"
"And it's better than just sitting inside!" Kurt threw his second stone, counting each splash as it skipped across the lake. "Five!" He spun back, his cheeks already red from their short run. "Beat that!"
"Easy!" Stooping down himself, Friedrich found his own stone, twisting it between his fingers as he straightened; it was flat and smooth without a nick, almost light as a piece of wood. Drawing his arm back as he took a breath, he flicked the stone out onto the lake, counting the tiny splashes across the water. Six—seven—eight! "There! Three more than you!"
They went back and forth for a few minutes, the little copse usable stones at their feet dwindling as the ripples ran toward them from the middle of the lake. Kurt was already hurrying about—his eyes searching for interesting rocks as they always did—and in a moment, he turned back. "Come on!" Kurt said, grabbing Friedrich's hand and pulling him along, leading them around the shoreline, back toward the house and an untouched mound.
"Where are you going? They'll see us—"
"Everyone's inside! And we're running out of rocks!"
Their little competition continued almost in the shadow of the house, its silhouette short and stocky in winter's early afternoon sunshine. They resumed the rhythm they had established around the far curve of the lake, though closer to the house, Friedrich sometimes paused after his brother had his turn. Waiting for another splash far across the lake, farther than he or Kurt could throw—a little wave of air against his face—before he pulled his own arm back.
Father should be here with us, he thought as he bent down to this little cluster of rocks at the edge of the lake, the faint breeze not enough to shift the water to cover even the first row. It was rougher than the last one he had found, scratching at the base of his fingers as he clenched his hand. And he isn't.
Friedrich turned his face over his shoulder for a second, eyes raking over the house from the eaves to the hedges still struggling to find their new growth after the worst of winter's harshness. I don't understand it, how am I supposed to do what you wanted me to do, Mother? If Father isn't here...He turned back to the lake and the water, the last thing their father seemed to love. But he would just tell us what to do like he did in the navy. He twisted the stone around. It's all he does, now— A heavy splash cut into his thoughts, his arm slapping against his thigh. It wasn't little shivers across the pale staid water, now, but ripples and small waves approaching the shore. He knelt again and seized the first rock he found, then tucked another into the hollow of his hand beside his thumb. He heaved the first—the second—as far as he could, ready to reach for another—
"Friedrich!"
"What?" he shouted as he turned back to his brother.
Kurt spun a few stones of his own between his fingers, one dropping with a clatter to the pile between their feet. "You're not even trying anymore!"
"So?" His attention back on the lake, Friedrich reached down for another rock, this one landing only a few yards from the shore, the splash louder and ripples larger than before. "It's not like it matters."
Shuffling up to his brother, Kurt pulled his own arm back, lobbing the rock forward into the water. It broke the waves from Friedrich's, landing several feet farther into the middle. "But at least we're away from the girls."
"We already were."
Kurt nodded as he tossed his next rock, though this one fell far short of either of the last two the pair of them had thrown. "Yes, but they talk too much."
"Just like you." The next one in his hand, Friedrich threw this one harder than ever, his shirt almost coming loose from the waistband of his trousers.
Kurt crouched down again, sifting through the stones and smaller pebbles, the little rocky shoreline now wet and dark with the waves that had splashed back over the last quarter hour or so. The dirt on his hands was patchy, now, probably clinging to the rocks that had sunk to the bottom of the lake just like a few specks still clung to the back of his brother's neck. What was left on his fingertips was already turning to mud, thicker between his lowest knuckles. "When do you think Father will be back?" he asked softly.
Friedrich grabbed for another rock. "He's home once a week, usually—"
"Not this time!" Kurt shouted, his face snapping up.
Another hard throw, this one off to the side, almost toward the back of the house. "He doesn't want to be here, even you know that!"
Kurt sighed; they'd talked about this before—many times—late at night when their small table lamps were off, the only light in their room either creeping beneath the doorway from the hallway or the stars and moon gleaming through the rippling glass. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what?"
He pushed a few of the smaller rocks to the waves, now lapping a little slower against the shore. "When will he be back—to stay?"
Friedrich kicked a few of the smaller pebbles away, another splash rising from the lake. "Probably never."
"But...someday—"
"Why?"
"What do—"
"He's hardly been home since Mother died."
Kurt dropped onto the damp ground, a few goose pimples bursting onto his arms beneath his white shirt. His backside was probably dirty and wet from the water that had splashed up onto the shore, but he only sank further into the pebbles and darkening mud. He pulled his thighs up against his chest, his knees bare beneath his short trousers and just reaching his chin as he curled his arms around them. They never talked about their mother now, not even late on a Friday or Saturday night when school the following morning wasn't looming over them. Sometimes, when words had failed them and Friedrich turned away, his breathing already hitching with the snoring that had begun to echo from the far side of the room in the last months, Kurt couldn't help but think about her. Her dark hair, how tightly she embraced him whenever one of the little girls weren't demanding her attention, her voice low and smooth in his ear as he turned to her rather than their father those days something unpleasant followed him home from school or some squabble from the nursery those weekend afternoons they were sent off to play on their own.
I miss you, he thought, his throat already thick with the sniffs he wouldn't let go, wouldn't let Friedrich hear. Why did you have to go?
"How long are you going to be sitting there?"
He looked up again, squinting as his gaze caught the sunlight. "What?"
"We didn't need to come out here for you to just sit around—and in the dirt." Another stone plopped into the water. "You've got enough rocks upstairs for that."
He crushed his cheek back into his trousers, the cuff and seams rough on his skin as a quick breeze rustled over the water. "Friedrich?"
"Hmm?"
"It can't…" Kurt pulled his mouth away from his leg, already hearing his own muffled words. "It can't be like this forever, can it?"
"Why not?"
"Well, because...he has to come home some time."
The older boy stooped down for another handful of stones, though this one was mixed with a number of pebbles. "Good thing we're out here," he muttered as the smallest debris escaped his palm, "you're starting to sound like all our sisters."
Kurt shoved himself back to his feet, one of his shoes sinking into the darkening mud around him. "You can't say that!"
Another splash. "Can't I? What are you going to do? Father won't be here to…"
"What?"
And another, then Friedrich grabbed another round of stones, this time heaving them all in one go. "Just be quiet for once."
"Fine!" Kurt snapped as he turned back to the house, crouching down again. "At least I might find something interesting if you don't want to talk!"
They both lost track of the time, not quite seeing the shadows of the skeletal trees grow longer as the sun wandered across the sky. Kurt uncovered a flat rock that he immediately brought to his face to see clearer, jagged around the edges with a spidery leaf pressed into one of the smoother sides. Friedrich continued tossing rocks into the lake, once or twice peering over his shoulder when he thought he heard voices. "It doesn't really matter," he muttered as he turned back. Another crouch down to the rocky shore—
"Boys, you know better."
Friedrich's stomach sank as he dropped the rocks he had just found, shuffling back from them into the muddy soil farther inland. Beside him as he stood—freshly found fossil in his hand and dirt smudged on the tip of his nose—Kurt's cheeks were red, his eyes down on his own toes as the gardener stopped in front of them. "Come on, lads, you're not to be out here by yourselves." The man was tall, the cap on top of his head cutting into the lower half of the sun. Hanging at his sides, his hands were caked with a thin layer of muck as they always were, at least whenever he was outside. Or so Friedrich supposed; the man must be inside sometimes, he knew, but he only ever saw him with dirt beneath his fingernails. (Friedrich knew he'd heard the man's name before, just as he had all of the other staff, but it almost always slipped his mind, a jumble of consonants that sounded like nonsense.)
Kurt finally looked up, and Friedrich saw his brother's fingers tightening into a tighter fist around the rock he still held. "But we know where—"
"And you know that doesn't matter," the man said gently, his voice always a little rougher than Friedrich remembered. Whether it was from spending all his days outdoors or the lingering traces of a language he had never heard, Friedrich didn't know. "The Captain has been very clear."
"But we're always inside unless we're going to school!"
"Yes—"
"And Father always talks about the beach from when he was young—"
"After the whole week inside, he would understand—"
"Doesn't matter, it's not what your father wants you doing. You'll catch your death of cold out here, no coats." The gardener stopped for a moment, and Friedrich heard the man take a deep breath as he glanced down to Kurt. It was something no one talked about, at least out in the open. Almost as though their father was always peering down from the sky, ready to pounce at the first thought of their mother. "And if you're going to talk about school," the gardener went on after a moment, then clearing his throat with a quick cough, "you'll be better with that if you're at your lessons. Go on."
Friedrich shook his head. "But—"
"You won't be able to in a few weeks, so best be used to it, boys. In on your own before someone else comes looking for you."
The gardener left them by the calming lake, Friedrich biting at his lip as he struggled to remember the man's name: still failing, but at least coming up with M to start. Probably doing something outside even on a Sunday afternoon, he thought, Kurt falling in step beside him as they crossed the broken grass behind the terrace. I don't want to go back in.
"Friedrich?"
"What now?" he whispered, hurrying a little more as they came to the stone path that led from the stone steps straight out to the lake and the iron gates with their stone horses that always seemed to be watching the house. Almost watching them.
"You said you don't think…" A pause, and Kurt rushed ahead of him for a few steps, just spinning back to him. "What do you think Father is doing right now?"
Friedrich snorted, passing his younger brother with ease and taking those first marble steps up to the terrace. With the winter snow melted and gone, it was bare and empty. A year ago, it would have been the scene of many a handful of snow tucked down a collar or snowball tossed at a brother or sister old enough to defend themselves. But this year..."Probably the same as if he was here." Now just through the French doors into the main hall, something suddenly settled on his shoulders—deep in his chest as well. It was all the same as it had been before they scurried through the back corridors into the open air, suddenly free from the suffocating house.
Quiet. Still. Empty. "Probably the same as if he was here." Neither of them had knocked the mud and dirt from their shoes, and Friedrich felt it squelch against the paneling on the floor. "Nothing."