To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [189]
“No, Manfred, it was not, either to Mr. Voss or to me. Do you not understand what news like this means to me? I know all about Mr. Voss and his accomplishments. He is another hero, Manfred. Just like my sons!” She fought tears, put a hand to her face, and he held her tighter, didn’t know what else to do. She wiped at her eyes with a small handkerchief, said, “I pray for you every day. All I ask is that you be allowed to do your duty and then come home. Your father scolds me, says I must not show such weakness. An officer’s wife must accept her fate. But my sons. There is no solace for a soldier’s mother. Unlike your father, I draw no inspiration from your victories. I do not boast of your kills. I do not worship the glory that comes from the destruction of your enemies.”
“Our enemies, Mother.”
“Really? I suppose I am to accept that without question. My men are soldiers, and so I am to feel protected. And yet every day there is one more item missing from the market. Today, it is meat. For a week now there has been no coal. We have not seen green vegetables in many weeks. I do not complain, because I know that in this house we have more than most. The army provides for us because my sons are heroes. I hear talk in the town of some kind of meeting, angry men gathering, threatening violence against the soldiers here. Your father says they are called Bolsheviks, that they want to fight the kaiser. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Manfred, it is frightening. What do they want?”
He had heard only the official reports, mostly from the seaports in the north, small mobs of laborers threatening to incite riots. He had paid little attention to it, had known for a long time that the shipping blockade had put many men out of work. But the official word was that these men were signing up instead for the army, were training to join the fight on the Western Front. If there was unrest at all, it came from those who simply refused to work, drunkards and troublemakers, who would take to the streets shouting politics as their excuse to loot the markets.
“There is no danger, Mother. The army has complete control. Any such talk will not be tolerated. I admit, I have not heard of such a thing happening around here.”
She did not answer, seemed lost in her own thoughts.
He stood up now, tried to put on a smile, said, “Am I allowed to inquire about breakfast?”
She looked up at him, said, “What of your Mr. Voss? You will have to prepare another obituary. You can go into town and telephone your headquarters.”
He did not want to think about Voss, but her words took away the energy for his smile. “Yes. I will go later. There is little I can do about any of this now.”
“You are wrong, Manfred.” He saw anger in her eyes, the tears again, and she said, “You can stop flying. You have done your part. No one would ever find fault.”
He turned away from her, moved slowly around the room, stopped at the window, stared out at the garden. “Father would not agree with you.”
“I do not speak for your father. If it is selfishness to want my sons alive, then I am selfish. I want you to have a wife. I want you to know what it is to see the face of your own babies, to watch your own children grow up.” Her voice was rising now, and she stood, faced him. “You have done enough for your country!”
He had not seen her angry in a very long time, felt suddenly helpless. “Mother, you cannot understand. If everyone felt this way, no one would fight!” His words lay hanging in the air, and she stared at him for a long moment.
“Then, my son, no one would die.”
There was a knock at the door, and she ignored it, still looked at him, rubbed her hand on her face.
“Manfred?”
It was his father, and Richthofen moved quickly to the door, opened it, saw the old man in his uniform. His father seemed surprised, said, “Oh, I didn’t realize . . . sorry to interrupt. My dear, I was hoping we could commence breakfast, now that our hero is awake.”
There was sarcasm