The muffled sobs Anna heard coming from under Lilly's blanket that night were about the dwindling rations they received to feed the boys. Anna found the lump that was Lilly's head in the dark, and whispered, “Tomorrow morning I’m planning a little trip with a bike, and a backpack. Will you come?” Lilly's reply was drowned by the sirens. A couple of doors banged shut outside, people making their way to the shelter.
The next morning the supply truck arrives very early, and along with the thermos, bread and jam, the boys unload a decrepit looking piano. Axel von G., who is being volunteered to help heave it down, pronounces it suitable for kindling. The Sergeant comes out of the office and opens his mouth, then runs back in. The piano is carried into the Mess Hall, pushed against a wall and left there. Motz walks about with significantly lidded eyes, and it is generally understood that they have him to thank for the surprise, if gratitude is the sentiment to be elicited here.
“This instrument hasn’t seen a tuner in twenty-five years,” says Axel with a grimace, but something reasonably pleasant happens when he plays a few notes.
“Looks to me like it hasn’t seen ANYBODY in twenty-five years,” says Hansi, “it’s probably been holding up somebody’s roof.” And he blushes when Lilly laughs.
“I’ll come back when he plays Tiger Rag,” says Motz with a medium slam of the door.
“This is Chopin actually,” says Axel, “I was born with long fingers —”
“Required pickpocket equipment, lucky man,” whispers Eddie.
“— and a keen ear,” Axel finishes and gets up, as the whistle blows outside.
Emma, Monika and Walla are on breakfast duty this morning. Anna and Lilly have set out by bike, at 6.30, pedalling hard in the heavy mud. After half an hour they can make out the roof of the farm, beyond the woods.
“What are you — are we going to say to them?” Lilly asks, watching her step.
“I don’t know yet,” says Anna, “I’ll explain about the boys, just tell the truth. We’ll see.”
The barn contains a gaggle of complaining chickens, shooing each other in and out a side door. The girls can hear steps inside the house and a PoW emerges in fatigues, boots, with a towel around his bare shoulders. Spotting them, he turns on his heel and calls out something to the woman seen in the kitchen window now. She is holding a small child. The girls are invited inside, wait on the white-washed, tiled landing, then ushered into a large warm kitchen, where the kettle is boiling on the stove, a jug of milk sits on the table, butter, and an end of liverwurst and bread.
The woman searches their faces, an aloof expression on hers. “Are you alone?” she asks with another anxious look out the window. “What is it? What do you want?” She pours them tea.
“No one knows we’re here,” says Lilly quickly.
“And we can’t stay or we’ll be missed,” Anna adds. Deciding to get right to it, she produces from the backpack her C-recorder, made of beautiful rose wood with ivory trim. It suddenly seems simple.
“We are with the Home Guards back there at Stolpe field, in the old FLAK barracks, you know? We’ve come to see if we could trade this soprano flute for some food for the boys. There’s less and less coming on the supply truck. We haven’t had milk for ten days. It’s always noodle soup, and three days ago we discovered when we were serving that one of two thermos kettles had gone off — sour in one day. We do get margarine most of the time, and even salami, but by the time you divide everything by 137, plus four men and six girls —”
“You look after all these people?”
“Well, that’s alright. We manage, but the boys are always hungry. You know how it is —”
The woman looks at the PoW, who has picked up the recorder, examining it.
“This is a very good instrument,” he says. Anna nods.
“Yes, it is. It’s mine.” He leaves the kitchen when the woman nods, and returns with a small sack of barley. She walks into a pantry and the girls nearly swoon when they see a side of bacon hanging from a hook. They receive a six pound piece and an immense salami sausage.
“Come along,” says the woman, leading the way to the barn. The PoW, now in an undershirt, carries the fussing boy.
“She’s getting us eggs,” says Lilly. Anna puts her finger to her lips, nodding. The barn is damp and cold. In a corner they see a rough wood enclave, with a straw sack on a bench, a thick stuffed pillow and a horse blanket neatly folded at the end. The woman now collects 26 eggs from various nests into a small basket.
“Have you got any onions?” Lilly asks, “by any chance?” And they receive a long braid.
“Robert here will bring you a couple of sacks of potatoes later, and some beets, would you like beets?” says the woman. “A few carrots?” She looks around.
“What’s your name?” to Lilly, “and yours?” to Anna. “You are good, good girls, and God bless you,” she says, then shakes their hands warmly.
When they returned the compound was deserted, and the girls were relieved to slip into the galley with their treasure.
“Do you think Robert sleeps in the barn, on that cot?” asked Lilly, a little pink in the face.
“Nnno. The tomcat does, though. On the blanket. He’s shedding.”
The soup, delivered extra early this morning, accompanied by the piano, had gone off already, a cabbage and turnip composition. They quickly closed the lid and went to speak to the Sergeant about the bad news. Then Lilly, Lotte and Anna sat and started shredding raw potatoes into the cauldron, and slicing onions.
That night they feasted on potato soup, made with onions, carrots and bacon.