A tall, dark figure on a bike approaches from across the fields when the girls are on their way to the Mess Hall the next morning. Balancing a bundle on the front basket, and another sizeable one held by the strong rope behind the seat, Lotte’s mother manages to look as though she does this sort of thing for a living. A mop of magnificent curls piled up carelessly on top of her head, masking their unwashed state, slightly more mascara under her left lower lashes than the right, and her feet clad in old tennis shoes, she greets her daughter with the words, “excellent directions, Lotte. I made it in under forty-five minutes.”
“Good. So what have you got there?” asks Lotte.
“Less than I had hoped for, but there are eleven hats, seven jackets, some are small, though, fifteen belts with regulation buckles, lots of the scarves, but only four or five pair of pants and three pairs of boots.”
“Fabulous, fabulous, Mrs. Schneider,” says Lilly, offering her hand. “I’m Lilly. Thank you so much. This is Anna, Emma, Waltraud, and where is Monika?”
“God knows,” says Lotte. “Let’s get these things in to the Serge.”
When he realizes what is happening, the Sergeant’s permanently furrowed brow smoothes momentarily, and, “God, if he hugs my mother, I will turn into a pillar of salt,” Lotte thinks, but he doesn’t, just beams foolishly at this benefactress, seemingly switched from a dusty rehearsal stage of “DER ROSENKAVALIER” to a Brechtian “MOTHER COURAGE”. He clasps her hand.
“This is simply the best, Mrs. … Mrs.”
“Schneider,” says Lotte, arms crossed in front of her chest. There follows a long pause.
“Oh,” says Lotte’s mother. “Bertha brought over this packet of confectioner’s sugar. Isn’t it a scream? I don’t know what to do with it, so here it is.”
“Liar,” says Lotte under her breath, but she takes charge of the sugar.
“Thank you, Mrs. Schneider,” says Lilly again. “Thank you for everything. This is so encouraging. A miracle!”
“No. Fred and I made a few phone calls, and went around the neighbourhood. People don’t get rid of their kids’ clothes, especially when they lose a son. But I must go. Don’t want to be on the road when our cousins come calling.” She motions towards the sky. Then she places a slender hand on Lotte’s shoulder, but there is no need for the girls to turn away, as she just says, “keep it up, Lotte,” and is off.
Lotte looks after her with a satisfied little smile.
The door to the office is ajar. Someone picks up the loudly shrieking phone, and calls for Tom. He is nowhere to be seen. Chris finally goes in to take a message. After a few moments he drops the receiver and closes the door. When he finally emerges, Tom has just been found and stands face-to-face with his best friend.
“Who was it? What did they want?” Tom wants to know.
“Let’s go out. Get some fresh air,” Chris mumbles without looking at him.
Behind the galley they stop, and Tom grabs Chris by the arm.
“What is it?” Lotte hears. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Tom,” says Chris in a shaky voice, “you are going to be a father. That’s why you haven’t heard from her. She’s—”
“Hold it, hold it, chum.” That’s Tom’s voice. “I’M NOT GOING TO BE A FATHER. Whatever is going on here, whatever this means, I AM NOT AN EXPECTANT FATHER. Amelie and I, we never — I can’t be. We just kissed. I thought you knew that! AND SO SHE CAN’T BE PREGNANT. Is this a joke or something? Why would Amelie tell you such nonsense?”
“It wasn’t Amelie who called,” says Chris, quietly, “it was my sister. She thinks, she’s pretty sure—”
“You mean she doesn’t even KNOW? Did Amelie enlist her to give me the good news or what?” Tom’s voice is loud and sarcastic, and Lotte can’t bear to hear more. She tiptoes out the door.