He went on, toward Vicky’s boudoir. He opened the door softly, glancing in.
Vicky sat on the sofa with Baby in her arms, her head leaning down. The baby’s face was nestled against her breast, lightly covered by a white lace shawl. Both slept peacefully.
Fritz stood, gazing at Vicky’s face. How could he wake her to the misery of saying goodbye? And to say goodbye for how long? This war might be a terribly long one. And if he didn’t wake her, and… He turned, swallowing a lump in his throat, and went upstairs to the boys’ room.
Wilhelm and Heinrich were both asleep, their faces peaceful, though Heinrich’s hand twitched frequently. Fritz bent down and kissed them, and then went to Charlotte’s room. She, too, slept. Two days ago had been her 10th birthday; today… He bent down and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Meine kleines Mädchen,” he murmured, and turned to go downstairs again. He slipped quietly into his and Vicky’s suite again, but went directly to the nursery rooms.
He opened the door softly. Mrs. Wakelin sat in the corner, fast asleep, holding Waldie in her arms. The little boy whimpered in his sleep. Fritz sighed. Waldie was having nightmares frequently since the beginning of the war scare.
Fritz turned, bending over one of the little beds. Little Vicky’s eyes flew open as his beard tickled her face. “Papa!” She stretched her hands up to him and threw her little arms round his neck. He lifted her up.
“Möhrchen, you must be good and quiet; Papa must go,” he said gently. She looked up at him, tears appearing on her cheeks.
“Papa – Papa go – go to war?” He nodded, laying her back down in her bed. “No, no, Papa,” she sobbed, clinging to him.
He sat down on the bed, taking her hand and patting it against his cheek. “Hush,” he murmured, stroking her hair out of her face. She looked up at him, swallowing her sobs. “Will Möhrchen be a good girl and be quiet and not wake Mama?” he asked. Her eyes grew wide, but she nodded silently. He rose, looked about, and took a piece of paper from a little table, wiping a tear away as he wrote. He lifted little Vicky up again, controlling a sob he felt rising as he felt her little arms go around his neck again.
He opened the door of Vicky’s boudoir very softly, closing it behind him. He set little Vicky down on the sofa next to her mother, holding a finger to his lips, and placing the note in her hand. “Give it to Mama when she wakes,” he whispered. She nodded.
He turned toward the door, but stopped, looking back, unable to go. He stepped forward, going to the sofa again, knelt, and gently kissed Baby’s forehead, and then, very softly, touched Vicky’s lips with his.
“Fritz?” she murmured, smiling a little and turning her head. “Fritz.” She sighed and settled down, holding Baby closer to her.
Fritz stood, and went to the door. He couldn’t wake her. He would take that final picture with him in his mind, not that of her tearstained face, as he had in the previous wars. But he stood still for a long time, before he finally turned and closed the door behind him.
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