Rosalind was the first to arrive, and she wiped the dust that had gathered on the furniture at Georg’s, which had sat empty for some time, and collected fresh wildflowers and placed them in vases in both houses. There were a dozen geese and instructions from her grandmother to take care of them, to feed them the hay from the barn. Rosalind brought apricots and figs that she paid dearly for, as well as a chicken and sugar, and her grandmother had left some bread, jam, and tea for their arrival. The others were expected that evening, and Rosalind prepared a meal in advance.
Erich and Monique arrived next. Monique was dazzling in a pink summer dress, with shoestring straps, and white sandals. Her lips shone with color and her hair was cut just above her shoulders, brushed and much tamer than it used to be.
Rosalind was happy that Monique had moved away and moved on with her life, but there was a selfish motivation to remove the attention that was always on her. She did not miss the troubles that followed Monique, her diversion of Georg’s attention, and the sharing of Rosalind’s parents. She was relieved that the couple looked happy, and in a rare, unselfish way, she was happy for them, too. Had she been too hard, jealous of how easily Monique approached life, and bitter that she did not carry the same traits that made life more bearable? She felt dowdy next to Monique, her blond wispy hair pulled back sharply so that the color looked more mousy than fair. But that day she didn’t seem to care as much. Rosalind was genuinely pleased to see her cousin and had been lonely without her. They seemed to be getting on much better than they had in Berlin.
But if Rosalind had looked deeper, had not been too busy in the kitchen to examine the couple with any great scrutiny, she would have seen that there was something unsettling about their relationship. They seemed content and talkative, Erich keen to go for a swim, like Monique, but they didn’t make eye contact when they talked about their life together, and their shared experiences lacked substance. She failed to notice that Monique’s sentences stopped shorter than they used to; there were fewer descriptions and exclamations.
“Have you looked for your father?” said Rosalind.
“Yes,” said Monique. And that was all she had said, because the result was there in the shortness of the answer, and Erich had moved closer to Rosalind to discuss the weather outside, the sudden burst of heat that arrived with them on the train.
They had already begun to eat when Georg arrived. He did not arrive in uniform, not majestically like Erich in his exquisitely cut, newly issued gray jacket and hat that spelled out clearly his importance and superiority.
Georg had kissed Rosalind and swung her around just the same as when they were younger, and joy coursed through her body. She had loved him always, the feeling stronger than ever.
Georg shook hands with Erich, and Monique now had someone else to talk to, since Erich seemed, even at close quarters, to be in a separate room from everyone else. It was his way, to stay distant, to watch more than participate, and it was something Rosalind found uncomfortable. As if they were always under an examination they were unaware of.
They drank too much wine that night. With wine at least, Erich spoke more than Georg, who smoked one cigarette after another. He looked debonair using his long silver cigarette holder and waving it around casually. Monique relaxed and told about the interesting townspeople in Austria, occasionally glancing at Erich. How they mistrusted her at first but were jealous also of her handsome husband. Erich smiled briefly, but he did not look particularly impressed or buoyed by the description, since validation was something he could manage himself for the most part.
They reminisced, Monique and Georg, including Rosalind in their memories as well. Georg would put his hand on his wife’s knee occasionally. Was it possessiveness? Rosalind wondered. She hoped anyway. She wanted to be possessed by someone, to be wanted, desired, pined for.
And then it was time for bed and Monique left first, yawning as she walked away, but planning an early morning swim. Georg seemed disappointed that she was leaving so soon. Erich seemed reluctant to leave at all, much to Rosalind’s regret. She and Georg had had so little physical intimacy, and despite the rushed wedding night, she had been thinking a lot about him, about his body lying naked against her, about rubbing her hand across the taut skin on his chest.
Finally Georg said he was sleepy. Erich took the hint and left quickly. When she and Georg were at last alone in the attic bedroom, she changed into the lavender chemise he had presented to her on their wedding night. He told her the food was wonderful. She climbed into bed first, with its soft mattress that sank in the middle, and he took off his shirt and trousers, leaving on just his shorts, and climbing in also. He pulled up the sheet and rolled over to face away from her.
Rosalind lay beside him, facing his back. She traced her finger down his spine. She could see the sun line at the base of his neck, darkened from his days in the field.
In just a few minutes she heard his breathing deepen, the breaths stretching longer, his back rising and falling evenly.
He deserves much rest, she had told herself. He had just come from the front line, something they did not discuss at the dinner table. He’d had the longest journey to get there, an army truck from the field and then two trains. He was thinner, gaunt, she reflected as she lay there.
She switched off the lamp beside the bed and rolled over to spy through the window that looked across to the bedroom where Erich and Monique would be sleeping. Their light was still on. She could see their shadows on the curtains of the room on the second floor at the end of the house. The pair disappeared from view, and then the light was extinguished. She was thinking that tomorrow was a new day and Georg would be recovered from travel and that she had a lot to be grateful for. She dreamed of Monique drowning in the river, screaming for help, not as a young girl, but as she was then, in her pretty summer dress.
She woke to silence.
A shaft of moonlight streaked the bedroom furniture and the empty spaces around her. She was in the middle of the bed alone. She walked to the window to look at the house next door. Monique’s room was in darkness. Rosalind stopped to listen for sounds from Georg, but she heard nothing.
She treaded carefully down the stairs, wondering whether he’d moved to the room below, perhaps to sleep alone, and desiring some space. She took pity on him, imagining the cramped spaces where he’d likely been forced to sleep.
He was not on the lower level, and the front door was slightly ajar. She opened it farther, expecting to find Georg smoking on the front bench and staring at the wood, but she was greeted only by the coolness of the night.
She was about to try the other door to scan the backyard, when she heard a voice in the distance, much like Monique’s, the sound coming from the woods.
Out amid the trees, she glimpsed the silver beam that stretched across the river; then she veered right to the secret pathway leading to their hideaway.
She was on the narrow strip, where trees leaned inward in an attempt to take back the path, when someone loomed out of the darkness in front of her. Moonlight struck the shock of strawberry-gold hair and the top of his sharply angled cheekbone. He was startled and stopped suddenly so they wouldn’t collide, before squeezing past her to rush away. It was only once he’d passed, in the seconds after their meeting had taken place, that she realized Georg was naked.
The past and envy and fear that had dissipated with marriage and time reared repugnantly, replaced only by the dread that there was still more to witness.
She was still standing in a state of shock and fear when Monique stepped into view, startled also by Rosalind’s appearance in the wood.
“Rosa!” she cried.
She was wearing a cream satin nightgown, which shimmered and competed with the very star that had illuminated her.
Monique was now speechless in the dark, but she turned her head slightly in the direction of the hut, to the place where the crime had been committed, before turning back to face Rosalind and reaching for Rosalind’s hands that were clutching at the air in front of her, searching for something to support her.
“Rosa, we have to talk—”
“How could you,” Rosalind whispered harshly, and bile rose in her throat.